


My Coin is Three-Sided, and It's Still Money, Baby

by flammablehat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: D/s, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/pseuds/flammablehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin calls them the Knight and the Prince. It’s how he differentiates, now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Coin is Three-Sided, and It's Still Money, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ella_bane's Kink Me, Merlin Fill exchange fest! Please understand going in that I am not a psychiatrist/psychologist by any stretch of the imagination and therefore my handling of the subject matter could be considered insensitive or just plain inaccurate. Understand it's not my intention to give offense - I was inspired by the porny possibilities of the prompt: Arthur/Merlin, modern AU -- Arthur has multiple personality disorder, he has 2 personalities.Both are in love with Merlin(they're together).One of his personalities is very rough during sex (pulling hair, bruising, biting etc) while the other is very very gentle and affectionate,loves cuddling etc.Arthur is/are aware of his/their condition.They don't like each other much and get jealous of the other from time to time.Merlin loves them both.
> 
> Written in one evening and unbetad like woah. I apologize for the inevitable crimes I've committed against accuracy with British-isms.

Merlin calls them the Knight and the Prince. It’s how he differentiates, now. He spent too long getting whiplash from Arthur’s mood swings before he realized what was actually going on, and he’s still not sure he gets it. Not completely.

But when he falls asleep aching, bruised and stretched out and so slick between his legs his thighs slide together, only to wake up to soft kisses and a warm towel bathing him from top to toe… Well, he thinks. Does he really need to know?

Nope. Probably not.

+

“I have a function tonight,” Arthur says, scowling. “After work. Black tie.”

“Yeah?” Merlin says around his mouthful of eggs.

“Come with me?” Arthur asks, dropping his head into his hands.

Merlin makes a face. “Your father will be there?” He already knows the answer. Arthur confirms with an unhappy noise. Merlin sighs, pushing his plate away. “I’ll dig our suits out of storage.”

The attic is just another extension of Arthur’s greater domain: meticulously well-maintained, but full of their combined history. The portable cloth storage unit contains their old fencing gear, neatly shoved to the back; Arthur’s doctoral gown and Merlin’s academic regalia, and a hideously expensive suit of medieval royal robes, complete with an additional set of servant’s hose. The servant outfit was designed with a child or small woman in mind, perhaps with the intention of letting parents scar their offspring under the pretense of coordinated costumes. Merlin shifts a little, remembering the night Arthur had forced him into the doublet and ridiculous hat, his hip bones showing through the laces of his breeches because everything had been too small, and the way Arthur had bent him over their dining room table and fucked him until he saw stars.

Rifling past the robes and another lonely suit, he finds their tuxedos easily, demarcated as they are by their own dust-proof bags. Merlin has them upstairs and airing out by the time Arthur gets home that afternoon, and one look is all it takes to tell him the Prince has won the evening’s internal wrestling match.

A cool shiver of anticipation dances up Merlin’s spine when Arthur begins to fuss with his cuffs, saying “Help me dress.” Shadows are in his eyes and there is iron in his voice. Merlin goes to him without hesitation.

He looks and touches his fill of Arthur’s body but keeps his eyes downcast. The jacket sits comfortably on him, his shoulders crisp authoritative lines and his waist trim where Merlin tucks in his shirt. His shoes shine, and his trousers drape an elegant, narrow silhouette from his hips. Merlin’s almost disappointed when Arthur lets him finish his bowtie off without a word, and he goes to reach for his own suit before Arthur catches his wrist.

“Not so fast,” he purrs, setting Merlin’s skin on fire. “You have to get undressed first, Merlin. This isn’t rocket science.”

Merlin hesitates. He opens his mouth, closes it. Arthur watches him steadily.

When they first met Arthur would sometimes entertain himself by bossing Merlin around just to see him obey. Those occasions have become vanishingly rare, but every now and then another rash of prat will flare up and Arthur will test him. It’s usually in his best interest to play along either way, but Merlin can’t get the feel for which direction things are headed tonight.

His hands fall to the hem of his jumper and he pulls it off, feeling his hair buzz with static. The room seems immediately cooler, his t-shirt soaking up the air like it’s a little damp. Arthur catches Merlin around the ribs with one large hand, his thumb swiping over a nipple. Like magic, it peaks beneath his touch. Merlin sways into the contact.

The trousers go next, skimmed off his hips. Air strikes again, curling around the heavy sway of Merlin’s balls, the stiff arc of his cock. He bites his lip when Arthur doesn’t make a move to stop him and doffs the shirt, steps out of his boxers. Gooseflesh breaks out over his arms and flanks under Arthur’s calm perusal.

“Lay down,” Arthur says, and Merlin steps back, lets his calves hit the low footboard and the mattress catch him. He closes his eyes, picking out the sounds of the top bureau drawer sliding open and shut, a cap clicking, the muffled slide of Arthur’s smart shoes on the wood floor. Arthur’s hands spread his legs, press them back with one firm forearm. Cold and wet hit the crack of his arse, followed quickly by Arthur’s fingers. He pushes one and then two fingers inside, gathering lube and funneling it into Merlin’s hole. More lube and he does it again, and again, until Merlin can feel a mortifying leaking sensation with every ragged breath he takes.

Arthur unzips his placket and unfolds the leaves of his trousers around the prominence of his prick. Merlin eyes the thick red curve of him hungrily, transfixed by the sticky liquid gleam at the crown.

“If you crease my suit,” Arthur says, grabbing his cock at the root and settling against Merlin’s hole, “You’ll greet my father tonight in nothing but a leash. Do you understand?” Merlin rolls his eyes at the threat but nods. Arthur grins a shark’s grin and pushes forward, making Merlin’s mouth fall open and eyes squeeze shut.

He’s so wet there’s not even a stutter to Arthur’s advance, but the man was miserly with his fingers for a reason and the stretch now is _incredible_. Merlin’s first instinct is to throw his legs around Arthur’s waist and hold him still for a moment, let himself adjust, but he remembers his warning and jams his heels against the footboard instead. Arthur, oblivious bastard, pumps in and out, in and out, watching the way Merlin’s body swallows him whole with heavy lidded eyes.

Merlin doesn’t know why he finds it so intoxicating, the way Arthur’s shirttails frame his dick and his hands hold Merlin’s hips down to the bed, clinical tonight, self-serving. The way he’s unruffled in his formalwear, the way he dressed Merlin down and slicked him up and uses him now like an oversized sex toy, fucking without rhythm or great consideration, and Merlin has to grab the slats of the headboard to brace against the roughening impact of Arthur’s thrusts, his eyes screwing shut to keep himself from completely losing it and doing something ill-advised like throwing himself on top of Arthur and riding him until he comes and comes and comes.

“Merlin,” Arthur snaps, drawing him from his fevered reverie. “Clench down. Squeeze me while I fuck you.”

The order makes him momentarily breathless; he goes tight instinctively, keening at the sharpened draw of Arthur inside him. He’s doing alright following instructions if Arthur’s grimace is anything to go by, his hips snapping forward like a piston. And then Arthur laughs, groaning, pushing in and in and in, and Merlin wants to cry it feels so good. He nearly does when Arthur stills, pulling away, stopping Merlin up with a thumb while he fumbles into his pocket with his other hand. He pulls out a plug, not Merlin’s favorite by far – it’s too narrow and the silver has an unforgiving solidity to it. But Arthur likes the ruby set into the end of its stem, and it slides in easily, through the lube and his own come.

“Lovely,” Arthur hums, his voice deep and sex saturated. “You’ll wear it all night,” he leans forward to whisper in Merlin’s ear. “You’ll hold my come inside, or I’ll know. You won’t come, or I’ll know. You’ll do everything I ask and behave with complete ease tonight, Merlin, or I will take this,” and he retrieves something else from his pocket, producing a simple silver cock ring, “and I will put it on you, and I will spank you until you cry or my hand goes numb, whichever happens first.” Arthur smiles, brushes a kiss over Merlin’s open mouth, does up his pants and strides from the room.

Merlin lets his head fall back to the bed and shakes for a few minutes until he can get his limbs into enough functionality to tremble into his suit.

Arthur asks Merlin to fetch him a drink three times that night. He accosts Merlin from behind in the hallway leading to the bathroom and sucks a bruise under his jaw. He makes charming conversation with Morgana in her deep purple cocktail dress and remarks on the sheen to Merlin’s brow, sipping disinterestedly from his champagne while Morgana courteously asks if he’s feeling alright and Merlin tries desperately not to blush or move too much. In the car he undoes the tab of Merlin’s trousers and slips his hand down the back of Merlin’s pants, pulls away with slickness on his fingers and paints Merlin’s lips with it, eyes glittering in the darkness of the backseat while Lance drives on, oblivious in the front.

When they get home, Arthur neatly undresses and even helps Merlin out of his own clothes, and within moments Merlin is bouncing unashamedly on his lap until he streaks both of their chests with white and the tears finally come, an absurd relief.

+

Arthur’s quiet the next day, which usually means the Prince has receded for the time being. He flushes when he looks at Merlin and is disproportionately solicitous, doing all the dishes from breakfast and quietly rubbing Merlin’s neck when they settle together on the couch to digest. He coughs when Merlin hums, leaning into his fingers, and tries to get up under the pretense of doing yard work or some other insanity he knows they’ve hired professionals to take care of. Merlin catches him by the arm and tugs him back to the couch.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s okay?” Merlin grumps, not so subtly angling his shoulders back into Arthur’s hands.

“It’s barbaric,” Arthur says, frank and a touch disapproving, taking the hint and resuming with the massage.

“I like barbaric,” Merlin insists stubbornly. He drops his head forward onto his knees and hisses his approval when Arthur knuckles a particularly stubborn knot out of the muscle beside his spine.

“You’d think the clot would at least understand the concept of a dry cleaning bill,” Arthur says, and Merlin laughs, turning in his arms and smiling into the sweet, bemused look on his face.

“You’d think,” Merlin agrees, solemn. He leans up and lips at Arthur’s cheek, playfully avoiding his mouth. Maybe, if the mood lasts, Merlin will get a chance to tie Arthur to the bed tonight and practice his own brand of barbarism on Arthur’s body.

In the meantime, it’s enough to settle into the spaces between Arthur’s limbs, a little sore and a little sleepy, but most of all content. Most of all in love.


End file.
